


Young

by MashpotatoeQueen5



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Anxiety, Assassins & Hitmen, Attempted Kidnapping, Because I like to torture myself, Blood and Injury, But she's minor, Character Death, Frosta is Adorable, Frosta is BAMF, Frosta is now my smol child, Frosta is smol, Frosta is so done, Gen, I love her, Ice Powers, If there's an eleven year old child on the throne, Injury, Kingdom of Snow, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), OC character - Freeform, She be my fave, Snow and Ice, So probably a bunch isn't actually canon, Something PRETTY MESSED UP must have happened, The Princess Prom, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, This fic basically tries to explain why she might be like how she is, Written before Season 2, and give characters I love sad backstories, headcanons, i adore her, okay but seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 06:29:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17095562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashpotatoeQueen5/pseuds/MashpotatoeQueen5
Summary: “Come with me quietly, girlie, and nobody gets hurt.”Frosta freezes at the feeling of cold steel against her neck, screwing up her face uncomfortably at the hot breath of the words by her ear. It smells like rotten fish, and it isgross,and she wants it away from heras soon as possible.“Step away from me right now,” she breathes, not even looking behind her as the pair of them stood in the middle of an empty hallway, the only lighting being the pale blue glow from the lamps, “andyouwon’t get hurt.”The guy snorts, tightens his grip on her arm.“I’d like to see you try, kiddo. Walk,now.”She doesn’t look back, but if she did, he would have seen the smirk on her face.“Wrong choice.”





	Young

When Frosta is seven years old, her older sister tells her that she is too young for the battlefield, and Frosta huffs blue bangs out of her eyes and demands to know why that’s a problem.

The queen bears a look she cannot decipher, and tucks her under her covers and tell her that her powers are still growing and developing, that these sort of things take time.

And Frosta thinks, _I’m young, that does not mean I am weak,_ and says nothing.

How does the time pass, from then? So fast and so broken, how does it go from so bright and warm to so cold and empty? How does Frosta go from feeling as if she can take on the world to feeling as if the world is pressing her down, down, down until there is nothing left but  gasp of frozen breath in an arctic canyon?

Nine months pass, just like that. A blink of the eye, faster than anything Frosta has ever known, and there is laughter and feasts and her sister laughing as she chases her down the hall and smiling as she teaches her how to wield a staff. There is bright lighting and brilliant parties and her sister bearing that grin that pulls too wide around the edges during the entirety of the festivities for her twenty first birthday.

The false grin stays until late that night, when Frosta crawls onto her bed and drops half a pound of stolen goodies she had taken from the kitchen. Her sister smiles, then, a real smile, the smile she saves just for her, and Frosta smiles back, and she feels like she has all the power in the world.

Nine months. All this happens nine months.

Parties and celebrations and her sister attending war council after war council, meeting delegation after delegation, ruling the Kingdom of Snows. There are lines on her sister’s face that haven't been there before, and a sort of tiredness in her gaze that makes Frosta feel worried.

“Why do you even bother with all that stuff? Seems boring to me…” she says one day, making snowflakes trickle down from the ceiling of the library.

“There is power in tradition,” her sister says, studying a series of maps splayed out in front of her,” and strength in order. These are the foundations we build ourselves on.”

She looks up, her eyes meeting Frosta’s steady gaze, blue on blue, ice on ice.

“Don’t forget that,” she says, and Frosta doesn’t.

Nine months. All this in nine months. Where does all the time go? Because suddenly Frosta is almost eight and the halls are dark and there is no laughter and there is no snow, and someone is waking her up in the middle of the night with blood on their armour and sadness in their eyes and telling her to come quickly, come quickly, _there isn’t much time-_

Frosta comes, half awake and still in her nightgown, and stumbles down to the  infirmary.

She wakes up quickly after that.

Because there- there-

She has always liked the colour white.

She doesn’t like it very much any more, because now when she sees white all she can think of is the fact that it makes bright red splatters of blood all the more prominent.

Because there on the bed is her sister, her beautiful, beautiful sister, so grown up and now suddenly so young, gasping and choking, blood all down her front, nurses and technicians all around them.

_Poisoned,_ they’re saying, _she’s been poisoned there’s not antidote she’s going to d i e,_ and Frosta can’t hear a thing through the ringing in her ears.

Her sister reaches out, hands trembling, and Frosta stumbles forward.

“Hello, my little Snowflake, hello..”

She’s never heard her sister’s voice so quiet, so small. She never knew that it could be like this, so diminished, as if there is nothing left in the world but their two clasped hands.

_What’s going on?_ She wants to ask, but fear clouts her throat and there’s no air left to breathe the words to life.

Powerless. She feels powerless.

“You must listen to me now, Snowflake, yes? You must- I must- I must,” she coughs, and it rattles in her very lungs, and Frosta wants to _scream_ , “I must leave you, I’m sorry, _I’m sorry_ , but I have to- no choice-”

“What are you talking about? Where are you going?” Frosta demands, and there are tears in her eyes and panic like an avalanche in her chest.

Her sister doesn’t answer, not really.

“You must be strong. You must- look after them. Our people. And the- the crystal. The crystal- it will- connect with you, your powers- will- help-”

Every word is punctuated with gasps and coughs, and there is blood dribbling down from the corner of her sister’s mouth and Frosta is young but even she knows that that is not a good sign.

Her sister’s grip is going slack, there is beeping and yelling all around her, and healers rushing in and rushing out, and Frosta stands there and holds her sister’s hand like a lifeline, like it’s _her_ lifeline- _and maybe it is, maybe it is, she doesn’t know what’s going on but she’s not letting go, never letting go_ \- and when someone tries to pull her away Frosta _snarls_ and holds on tighter.

She stays.

There is nothing she can do, but she stays. She sends people out to try and find a cure. She calls for healers and doctors and orders people to research ways to stop the slow acting poison running through her sister’s veins, even as her wounds are stitched up and tended to.

She stays. She sits by her sister’s side for three days, and all of it is for nothing, because she is powerless, here, powerless in ways that makes her feel cold all over.

The young queen laying prone on the bed wakes once, just once, somewhere on the second day. Her stare is hazy and confused, but her eyes meet Frosta’s steady gaze, blue on blue, ice on ice, and she mumbles, “Snowflake….”

The seven year old whispers back, “I’m here, I’m here,” and hopes that it is enough.

It’s not.

The queen slips away quietly, in her sleep, and Frosta is the first to know because she _feels_ it, feels her sister’s bond with the ice crystal bend and _snap,_ feels it latch onto her like an extension to her soul, and all she can do is tilt her head down, down, down and _cry._

Nine months. All it takes is nine months, and she’s here, standing in front of crowd full of people as her sister gets lowered down, down, down into an early grave. She doesn’t say anything, during the funeral. Her sister looks beautiful in her ceremonial garb and pinned up hair, and with her closed eyes she almost seems like she could be sleeping.

But Frosta knows that flowers of ice are covering gaping wounds, and that those pale blue orbs will never open again.

She doesn’t say a thing, at the funeral, but she is the one who stands before the crowds of her people and pushes off the boat of sculpted snow into the frozen waters all around her, left to drift until everything melts to its beginnings and all becomes swallowed by the waves.

And when she returns to her rooms, that day, she tilts her head back and _screams_ , and all the snow and ice of the world seem to scream with her.

She stays in her room for days. No food, little water, buried under her covers and refusing to acknowledge what comes next. Someone whispers that she has duties to attend to, people who need leading in this time of strife, and someone snaps back _she’s just a little girl, you prick, let her grieve,_ and there is silence.

She is grieving, she realizes, in the silence of her room. This is grief.

She curls tighter into herself in the center of her bed. Is this how her sister felt, all those years ago? Is this why she would break down into tears sometimes when Frosta would ask where their parents were when they were both younger? Is this why she used to sneak into Frosta’s room and stroke her hair and whisper to her _I’m gonna take care of you, I’m gonna take such good care of you, little Snowflake, you’re never gonna have to go through this, not if I can help it, not if I can help it-_

Her sister had taken over the kingdom when she was fourteen. Frosta is seven, and she doesn’t know what to _do._

_Did it hurt more,_ she wonders, _to lose two people instead of just one?_

She hopes not.. Gods, she hopes not. Frosta is grieving just for one, and if she feels any more pain she thinks she might _die._

She thinks she might be dying right here, laying on this bed. Because every day she waits for someone to come in and wake her up and every day, _every day no one’s there_ , and it’s _killing_ her.

She drinks less, eats less, she curls up so tight in her bed she can hardly breathe, and she stays.

She stays. Maybe, if she stays long enough, the world will stop caring and she can just go and be with her sister again. Maybe, if she stays long enough, her sister will come back and there will be no more pain or tears or tiredness, no more aching, lonely cold soaking into her bones.

Medics wonder in and out. They insist she eat. She takes mouthfuls of food and water and spits them out when their backs are turned. She’s not hungry. She’s not thirsty. She’s just- tired. She’s just tired and numb and-

And someone is calling her name.

Blue eyes blink open.

_Someone is calling her name._

The voice is calling, calling, and Frosta- sits up.

She sits up, she gets out of bed.

The voice is calling for her, familiar and strange and close and far, calling from all around and calling from deep inside, and Frosta follows.

She follows.

She is a ghost, in those darkened hallways, and patterns of frost spread out from her bare feet and she takes step after step after step. All around her, people stop and stare, shocked to see the young girl finally out of bed, shocked to see her at all, and Frosta ignores them.

Step after step after step, she follows.

The voice guides her up and up and up, and there is nothing she can do to resist. She feels- small, somehow, diminished, like she is only that last breath of summer in the face of the might of the coming winter.

And then she stands before the crystal, staring at it as it pulsates and shines and glows, staring at it as it flares bright and dims low, as people point and stare.

It is as if it breathing with her, in and out, in and out, and Frosta feels the cool night air brush against her skin, feels the ice on her bare feet, and remembers her sister’s rasping breaths.

_Are you here,_ she wonders, _hiding behind that glow?_

And the crystal meets her steady gaze, blue on blue, ice on ice.

There is a bond, now, between them, between this pulsating life and the own steady beating of her heart. It is holding onto her like a lifeline, and maybe it is, maybe it is…

She doesn’t know what’s going on, but she does remember promising that she’s not letting go, never letting go.

So Frosta holds back, and all around her the world begins to snow.

_Are you here?_ she wonders, _Are you here?_

But no one responds, and loneliness sinks into her skin, and buries itself deep.

* * *

 

They crown her on her eighth birthday, and the Kingdom of Snow watches as she bows her head and the tiara is nestled into her blue hair. It is a light crown, all things considered, but to Frosta is feels like the heaviest thing in the world. She knows where it belongs, after all, and it is not on her head.

But there is no choice. Her people need a leader, and there are no other candidates left.

She rises, and everyone cheers, and it feels like their support is only another brick tied to her wrists in order to try and drag her down to drown. Hr fingers are shaking, even as she works to keep her face calm and emotionless. It’s not hard, but at the same time, at the same time-

She wants to hide, she wants to _cry,_ she wants to yell and scream and shout and make everyone just stop _looking_ at her for once like she is some sort of _savior._

But she can’t. She can’t. Instead she raises her voice and talks about overcoming trials and building new foundations, becoming stronger through this struggle and holding unto their own.

“There is power in tradition,” she says, and her voice is brittle like ice,” and strength in order. These are the foundations on which we are built. Never forget this.”

Then she turns her back to the crowd so that they cannot see her tears.

She sits at the head of a table lined with her advisers and generals, a stack of paper in front of her marked with the ink fo her notes. She feels exhausted. She feels like she could sleep for a thousand years, but everyone around her just keeps _talking._

She breathes harshly through her nose. Enough is enough: it’s midnight, the full moon peaking bright and clear through the window, and she has an early start tomorrow. There isn’t any point to this debate, not when she’s already made up her mind.

“Enough. Hand me the Declaration of Neutrality Papers.”

“But Your Majesty,” one of her adviser interrupts, eyes wide and face determined, “the other princesses need us! The Horde-”

“Hasn’t threatened us here. My decision is final. Hand me the papers.”

The paper gets placed in front of her, and for a moment Frosta just stares at it, doubting. What if she’s making the wrong choice?

But her mind goes back, back, to her sister, to how she had gone out to another’s land and how she had gotten _murdered_ , it goes back, to her sister, to those quiet words.

_There is power in tradition_ , _and strength in order._ _Don’t forget that._

Frosta thinks, _I will not be powerless,_ and carefully signs her name on the line in scratchy block letters.

* * *

 

“Come with me quietly, girlie, and nobody gets hurt.”

Frosta freezes at the feeling of cold steel against her neck, screwing up her face uncomfortably at the hot breath of the words by her ear. It smells like rotten fish, and it is _gross,_ and she wants it away from her _as soon as possible_.

“Step away from me right now,” she breathes, not even looking behind her as the pair of them stood in the middle of an empty hallway, the only lighting being the pale blue glow from the lamps, “and _you_ won’t get hurt.”

The guy snorts, tightens his grip on her arm.

“I’d like to see you try, kiddo. Walk, _now_.”

She doesn’t look back, but if she did, he would have seen the smirk on her face.

“Wrong choice.”

Quicker than most people can blink, the cold flares up deep inside of her and _out,_ through her every appendage and then into every single thing around her, and the hallway instantly drops to below freezing, along with the blood in the guy’s fingers.

He gasps, high and strangled, and she tears her arm out of his grip and shoves him, hard, against the wall. She slaps him against the chest, and ice flares out from her point of contact and attaches him there, freezing him in place.

Using two fingers, she melts holes for the guy to breathe through, and then backs away, cautiously looking around her: last time, there had been another one hidden around the corner.

But no, this time the coast is clear.

“Guards,” she calls, “there’s been another one!”

People come rushing from down the hall. She can hear their feet pounding on the floor. She doesn’t look up at them, just steps away from the man, and starts walking back to her room.

_I am young,_ she thinks, _that does not mean I am weak._

Within the first three months of her rule, there has been seven attempted kidnappings and four attempted assassinations. Frosta hires more guards and trains longer hours, hiking up to be by her crystal as she freezes and lifts and throws larger and larger cascades of ice. Then, when she feels she is strong enough, she closes her eyes and lifts her hands.

She breathes, she breathes, and the crystal feels like it is breathing with her.

And all around her kingdom people watch as there is a swelling of snow and ice, up and up and up, until a frozen wall of winter rises up around the old castle walls and makes a fortress, surrounding the crystal and hiding it and herself from the world.

She collapses when she’s done, breathes harsh and hard into the winter air, watches her breath catch and fog.

_Not powerless,_ she thinks, _never powerless._

_Never again._

“What do you think?” she asks, glancing at the crystal to her side.

No one answers, so she looks back down, and loneliness runs deep, it runs through her veins, and all Frosta can do is learn how to breath around it.

She will take care of her people. She will take care of her people if it _kills_ her.

….But after she freezes a scouting ship that comes their way in a glacier of her own making and freezes assassins and kidnappers with a touch of her fingers, people stop trying.

She doesn’t know whether or not to be dissapointed, and the loneliness in her veins makes her heart feel numb with cold.

_All this power,_ she thinks, _all this power, and I still can’t bring you back, I still can’t bring you home._

* * *

 

After careful thinking and analysis, Frosta decides that she prefers the assassins and kidnappers to the diplomats.

At least, with the assassins and kidnappers, it is socially acceptable to fight them off. With diplomats, she has to… talk with them

And her advisers look down at her whenever she resorts to physical violence with them, which really just… sucks.

It sucks, and she doesn’t like it. At all.

But she has to, so when, at her first Princess Prom as ruling regent, various diplomats and ruling parties come up to her with false casualty and try to sweeten her up with false compliments and false sympathies, Frosta just smiles up at them sharply and hopes they see the daggers in her eyes.

They look at her and they see fresh bait. They look at her and see that she is young, and then they assume she is naive, and easy to trick into signing ridiculous treaties.

But she knows. She knows that the Kingdom of Snow is powerful, one of the largest remaining unconquered regions left. She knows that she is a powerful ally and a powerful enemy. She knows people want her on their side.

_I’m young,_ she thinks, _that does not mean I am stupid._

If they want her on their side, they will have to respect her first. She is not a pawn to be played. She will not be pushed around.

She will not be powerless.

The first Princess Prom she attends, she is not the host, but she hates how all eyes are on her when she enters and walks around, like a mouse in a pride of lions. She hates how small she is, compared to everyone else, hates how people take a glance and then just- talk down to her.

_How is it,_ she thinks furiously, _that face down my three times my size and yet it is here that I feel the most vulnerable._

Someone coughs behind her, and she turns and looks up- always up, she hates being nine- at some woman or another. She doesn’t know them, not really, but she scans for weaknesses and she digs them home. She will be taken seriously. She will be taken seriously if she has to grab the adults that surround her by the lapels of their jackets and drag them down to her level.

She will not be powerless.

“Princess Frosta, it’s an honour to finally meet you. As you may know, I am-”

“No.”

The woman frowns, eyebrows drawing together.

“Pardon me, what was that?”

Frosta raises an eyebrow.

“No, I am not interested in joining any alliance or creating any trade agreements. No, I am not interested in a diplomatic visit. No, I am not interested in sitting at your table. Have a pleasant evening.”

And then she strolls away, guards closing in behind her. She supposes there is one good thing about being nine: she can be insolent and blame it on her age.

Everytime someone approaches her, she says the same thing. She is only slightly disappointed at this point that no one denies her claims to their intentions.

_When was the last time_ , she thinks, _that someone came up to me because they simply wanted to get to know me?_

She can’t really remember, and the liquid in her drink chills and freezes along the edges of the glass.

_I am not a pawn,_ she thinks, _I am not powerless._

And she’s not, she’s not.

But then the next year comes, and it’s the Snow Kingdom’s turn to host, and all Frosta can feel is something small and anxious tightening in her stomach. This is her kingdom, her order, and foreigners are going to come and interrupt that balance she has created, disrupt her careful plans that keep the whole place running.

_I can work with this,_ she thinks, _I will work with this. I will._

And she does.

She creates a list of rules for the Princess Prom a mile long, one after another after another, looks up old traditions and she thinks to herself _Here is my strength, here is my order._

She can do this. She will do this.

She will.

But then Frosta is at her throne, overlooking the ball room, the very ball room where a bunch of people will be flooding in a few scant minutes, and her heart is pounding in her chest and she is thinking _I can’t, I can’t, I can’t-_

She has memorized the regulations of the party. She knows every rule, and if she gets this right everything will go perfectly and then everyone can be gone from her castle and she’ll be safe and alone once more.

But what if she screws up? There are going to be so many people coming and-

And-

“Guards.”

Her silent companions look towards her. She swallows, hard, still staring at the throne.

“When they- the guests- when they come in. And line up. Um. Only formalities, okay? Only formalities. No chattering. Just- let them come up to daias, we’ll say the formalities, and then you lead them away. Okay?”

They nod. And Frosta breathes in and lets it all go, and sits down on the throne, modeling her face to look stern and emotionless, tucking away her inner turmoil somewhere deep in the corner of her mind.

And then the people came streaming in.

Faces passed in a blur, and it runs smoothly until someone makes a mistake and the order gets broken and Frosta almost feels like she can’t breathe because of all the people looking at her.

_You don’t start out the formalities by pointing out the hostess’ age,_ she thinks, heart pounding in her chest because she doesn’t have any _control_ over this situation.

“I’m eleven and three quarters,” she says, on instinct, and then she thinks _stupid, stupid, stupid, stick to the formalities, what are you d o i n g?_

She breathes, breathes.   _You are a mask,_ she thinks, _you are ice and steel and stone. She can’t touch you. Nobody can touch you._

_You are not powerless._

Luckily, the pink haired girl knows what she’s doing and puts them back on track, but her heart is still pounding in her chest and her stomach is still twisting itself into knots.

The knots only get worse at the whispers of She-Ra. Frosta knows of the warrior, and she ignores the part of her that wants to know where she and her healing abilities were when her sister was poisoned and dying. She also ignores the part of her that wants to say that she loves the other princess’ hair, that wants to question how she got it so sparkly. She ignores that part of her entirely.

Instead, she rushes through the return greeting as quickly as she dares and then breathes in the smallest sighs of relief when the guards take them away.

_Safe,_ she thinks, _safe, and in control. You’ll make it through this. You got this, you got this-_

She does, somehow, and makes it through the majority of the formal introductions in one swift move. She goes to- mingle. Or something. But the idea of facing _more_ people she knows nothing about and has no real power over makes her hands shake ever so slightly, so she goes to the snacks table instead.

…. There was a time where she would steal handfuls of the sweets from the table and shove them into her dress pockets to share them with her sister. There was a time there would be a certain mischievous joy to that…

But now there was no one to share them with. And it didn’t matter. It didn’t

_It didn’t._

Everything goes downhill from there. She-Ra is forming an alliance. She-Ra is forming an alliance, and she comes up to Frosta and the young girl almost wants to be dissapointed, because the warrior was supposed to be _better_ than the others, was supposed to see her instead of just her status.

But all of those people are the same. They just see their cause and they- go for it. She doesn’t matter. Not to them. She’s just a tool to be used.

And then Princess Adora comes storming back up to her throne and demands that Princess Scorpia and her plus one leave.

_Do you not get it!?_ she wants to screech at the older girl, _There is power in tradition and strength in order. They are the foundations on which we are all built, so why are you trying to change things?_

“Teenagers,” she mutters, and she feels like she could crack from how brittle she is, as if the cold has frozen her from the inside out.

No one sees her. She is alone. She can rely on herself, and that’s it. That is all.

But that’s fine. Frosta is used to it by now.

And then, of course, comes the fight she has to break up, everything shaking inside of her even as she banishes Princess Adora from her kingdom.

And then, of course, comes the bombs.

All around her, her castle is shaking and breaking apart at the seams, and everyone is panicking and yelling and nobody's _listening_ and her heart is pounding in her chest because no, no, this can’t be happening this shouldn’t be happening, this is her kingdom this is her _home,_ this is order and tradition, power and strength, why is everything _falling apart-_

She can’t breathe right, she can’t- breathe.

But she heaves a breath anyways. She can panic later, can think about things later, but right now she has people to save and a home to rebuild, and she is there at her crystal, and she raises her arms and she _fixes things._

_Not powerless,_ she thinks, _not powerless, not powerless-_

But she feels like she failed.

There was order and structure and tradition, she was so, so careful, and now- and now-

Now, her kingdom was almost destroyed and she very possibly had people injured, and it has never occurred to her that sometimes people can and will break her order and her tradition and succeed, can make her delicate balance tip out of line until she is lost in chaos.

She feels light headed.

It makes sense, she supposes. After all, she hasn’t eaten all day and sleep has been pretty rare in the past few weeks leading up to the Princess Prom, but she feels light headed and there isn’t enough air in her lungs.

_You’re fine,_ she thinks, _you’re fine.  Stop being a big baby and asses the damages._

So she does just that, and feels stricken when she realizes Princess Adora was right all along, because look, look, now two people are _missing,_ and it’s _all her fault-_

_Breathe, breathe, you have to breathe-_

Her eyes feel watery, her mask is shattering, and there are so many people everywhere and she just feels so _exposed,_ with Princess Adora’s accusing eyes staring pleadingly back at her, and all she can think to do is promise to send her best trackers out and quickly excuse herself.

Then she hides in the closet and breathes into her knees until the world stops spinning.

And she deals, and she deals, and she deals, and she stares at the Declaration of Neutrality and she _thinks._

The Horde has attacked her in her home. Can she truly be neutral, then?

Can you truly be neutral when order and tradition are in the balance? When the very foundations are being threatened?

Can you?

She thinks about her sister, about her going off to war and coming back only with time enough to say goodbye. She thinks about her people, their fear, she thinks about other people, how they felt frightened just the same.

She thinks about being powerless, about that panic welling up in her chest, and a conviction starts forming inside of her that no one should feel that powerless, not like that, never like that-

A brilliant flare shoots into the sky, and Frosta knows what it is before her guards even come up to tell her.

A distress beacon.

“Get me the Declaration of Neutrality,” she orders, and her mouth is dry.

It is handed to her, and for several moments she just stares at it.

_I’m young,_ she thinks, _that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t help._

And then she tears it in half and throws it to the ground.

“I’m going to go and help. Nobody follow me. If I don’t- come back. If I don’t come back, instructions are in the dark blue notebook in my room.”

Someone tells her to wait, to come back, to think things through. Frosta doesn’t listen, she runs to the closest window and she jumps, and watches the freshly fallen snow come up to meet her.

Her hands splay out in front of her, ice forms, and she skids down the freshly formed frozen paths.

And when finally, finally she gets there, there is adrenaline bursting under her skin and she feels _alive_ like she hasn’t in ages. The crystal tower is crumbling and everything is going on all around her, but Frosta reaches out and she fixes thing, one after another, in order of necessity until she lands in from of the other princesses.

Her boots are wet from the water.

_How do you do this_ , she wonders. _How do you apologize and say you want to help and get everything crammed in as quick and as efficiently as possible._

“I hope I’m not too late,” she says, tucking every anxiety somewhere deep down. Now is not the time. She can deal with it later.

But it works, it works, and She-Ra smiles at her and tells her she’s right on time.

And she is.

The battle is a blur of colour and ice, and Frosta just focuses on driving away the massive tanks and the strangely uniformed guards and on protecting her teammates. It’s weird, working besides the others. It’s weird…

But it feels right. It feels _good_ , and Frosta sort of wants to never leave.

And then, somehow, it’s over, and there is shining and laughter and _light,_ and Frosta has never felt so connected with other living human beings since her sister has died, and she is jumping around and cheering and calling out, “‘Yeah! We did things together!” and hugging the closest figures she can reach.

And they all hug back.

_They all hug back._

_Together_ , Frosta things, _together, this is what it feels like to be together._

Someone is holding her tightly, cheering, spinning her around, and Frosta just closes her eyes and lets it be, because for the first time in a very long time…

For the first time, she feels young, and it doesn’t seem to be like a very bad thing to be at all.


End file.
